


Motherland of my prayers

by carolinka



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Future Fic, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 22:47:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5433680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carolinka/pseuds/carolinka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s the start of 2018/2019 season and David Silva can’t think of a single reason why Manchester City should hire David Villa as the coach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Motherland of my prayers

**Author's Note:**

> I’m kind of self conscious about this story because even though I’ve read it several times, some sentences felt off. If you notice grammatical or spelling mistakes, please just ignore them or feel free to point them out. I actually like this fic, apart from the smut part, because I’m shit at it and just ignore that it’s awkward as fuck? 
> 
> Anyway, here is the silvilla fic no one asked for but I hope you enjoy this because I absolutely loved writing it, though I must say it took me about three months to finish it.

David Villa is full of surprises. If you ask him, he would say he is most definitely not and he always does what a reasonable man would do. But the people who knows him agrees that if he is Katy Perry for a second, he is Black Sabbath in the next one, and then probably Mozart. 

So that’s why everyone’s both surprised and not surprised at the same time when Manchester City announces in their official site that David Villa agreed to coach their professional football team for three years.

There are many reasons why he shouldn’t go there and also why he shouldn’t be allowed to do this. Even though Mourinho fucked up last year and ended up being fourth (and also couldn’t qualify for Champions League) doesn’t mean he will end up better. He has never coached a team and no one knows when he got the licence anyway, he doesn’t know why he got a licence in the first place himself. He doesn’t have the right mind-set to be a coach, even when playing FIFA he always picked the worst line up because of his personal distates and he isn’t patient and list goes on and on.

But his utter inexperience and his incompatible personality aren’t the most disturbing things about this occasion. Not by any means. It’s that Silva still plays for City and he doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. He likes it there. And there is exactly zero chance that David Villa will be just another coach for him.

***

“This is the right thing to do,” Villa lamely assures himself as he passes the gates, a gaping blond man trying to catch his attention but he hardly notices his face, his mother’s scornful face swimming before his eyes. Her eyes are accusing and he has to swallow hard because she would never approve of this, violating Silva’s life so unexpectedly once again. She has always felt guilty of the way his son treated Silva, and his wife and his children. Like she should’ve raised him better but it’s not her fault that he turned out to be this coward of a human.

He wishes he could’ve been a better son. A better father, husband, footballer. A better lover.

He wasn’t, couldn’t be. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t try a little bit more. He just would’ve preferred it if it wasn’t so closely related to football.

_“I miss the fans chanting my name.”_

It can be addicting to hear them shout your name. It could become your worst nightmare to hear nothing. But he has gotten used to the idea, step by step. He was the star in Valencia, along with Silva, sure but being in the same team with Lionel Messi reminds you all the time that you are not good enough. Atletico was a nice change but every second spent there reminded of him why he wasn’t in Barcelona anymore. And NYC has never became home, never had the chance to.

(He doesn’t want to think too hard on what he was to Spain. He likes to believe he was a hero.)

_“I miss that shutter your heart gives when the ball hits the back of the net.”_

Football once was a joy. But no matter what everyone believes, it becomes a job for footballers. How could it not? He thinks of those times when his frown disappeared just at the thought of a ball at his feet. Now he thinks they say it only because they remember those old times, when they were twenty, not thirty-five.

(He doesn’t want to think that it is only him who stopped feeling the excitement, the bliss.)

_“I miss seeing the proudness in my daughter’s eyes.”_

He thinks back to 2012, when Zaida was hardly old enough to decipher that his father won the Euros, that once again, he was the king. He remembers how she threw her tiny skinny arms around and squealed in joy. He remembers her face so clearly, how undoubted her love and pride was. He remembers how she ran to Silva after he put her down, and God, he remembers how Silva ran around the pitch with her on his back.

(He doesn’t want to think that her daughter never ever called him dad after 2014. He doesn’t want to think that she didn’t bother to come to airport when he went to New York.)

_“I miss the celebrations after an El Classico.”_

Okay, that’s just Xavi. It’s somehow understandable, Barcelona is childhood club, he was bonded with the city and the club in a way he never could’ve been. Villa feels bad for his friend, one of the few friends he has these days, but he envies him for that he has a thing to miss about football.

(Though he does miss the celebrations a bit. But it’s not worth missing a sleep over.)

He turns his phone on as he waits in the corner for someone from the club to pick him up. He deliberately turned his phone off when the club confirmed the signing. As he expected there are millions of texts from many different people. It varies from “I think I’ve gone mad or I need eye surgery.” to “You fucking heartless bastard.”

He ignores the texts from his former teammates and relatives. He clicks on Patricia’s.

_“I always expected you to turn out better in the end.”_

It could’ve been a lot worse, he tries to think sarcastically but these honest words said without a hint of grudge, hits a special spot in his heart. He never deserved a place in that woman’s heart, always putting her to second, third place. He hastily deletes the message but it’s useless. The letters dance before his eyelids and he can’t unsee them no matter how many times he blinks.

He opens the text from his mother next. _“I hope dear David is doing well. Don’t forget to give him my love.”_

He bites hard into his lower lip, to prevent the tears filling his eyes. This isn’t the best time to cry, so he stops the tears spilling like he had done many times before, in case there are some cameras around. He can almost imagine the headlines, derivations of “Villa mournful over his move to City.” 

 _“I will. Take care.”_ is his plain reply but it will do the job.

He hesitates before he opens the message from Zaida. _“I see you can finally fuck the man of your every single day of the week. Congrats David!”_

He shuts his eyes as his constant mental rant about doing the right thing falters harshly. His first instinct to flinch at his twelve year old daughter’s vocabulary but he also feel a pang of pride that she doesn’t hesitate to speak her mind.

He deletes the message quickly as he sees two men in City uniform approaches him. He mentally notes to remind them that to walk around in the club’s clothes is a perfect way to draw attention and that’s hardly their intention. 

He awkwardly greets the men with his heavily accented English but no one bats an eye over it and if the hearts in their eyes are anything to go by, they won’t give a single shit even if he starts gurgling. 

The next few hours are a blur and he can swear that not a single thing stays in his mind because it was rather busy fantasising about a certain person after half a heart attack over two seconds. 

A certain person who still looks 20 even though he is 32, who still hasn’t gotten his bangs cut, who still has freckles all over his face and body, who still has the cheekbones he can carve on any stone by memory.

If it’s inappropriate or unprofessional, he doesn’t give a shit. A divorce, broken relationships with all of his family, distances, years couldn’t change that he has been in love with this man over ten years, half-assed coach-footballer relationship is hardly ever affect his feelings and desires. 

He is kind of embarrassed of reacting like a tornado hit him when Silva catches his sight because as he knows perfectly, he is not injured and of course he is there to train with the team under assistant coach. He just would’ve preferred if he didn’t have to avert his eyes and think about cherry flavoured perfume of Patricia’s that he always despised because the smell always stayed with him for hours, so Silva always caught the sniff of it.

“Oh, and one last thing?” the sixty-seventh-man-he-was-introduced-to-that-day interrupts him before he could just fled to his hotel and have a peaceful wank about a lithe body whimpering under him.

He disinterestedly turns to the man, urging him to get over with it with his body language, hand on the doorknob and feet turned away from him but as he hears what he has to say, he straightens up instantly, his heart drumming in his chest so painfully fast that he is sure they can feel it from Tokyo.

“David delivered a transfer demand this morning,” is what he says in a bored tone but his eyes are fixed on his sternly, threateningly. “Change his mind,” he adds almost pleasantly, or more accurately chirps, but David has to grit his teeth to stop himself from being an ass.

“I’ll do my best to convince him to stay,” he mutters when it becomes clear the man expects some sort of a reply.

The man hums, a lifeless grin appearing on his face. “We’ve been warned about some kind of history between you two. We just want to make sure it won’t affect the team.”

He forces himself to look the man in the eye, “We were just teammates. Whoever talked to you was obviously trying to rile things up,” he lies through his teeth.

The soft, hesitant sound of knuckles drumming over wooden door snaps them out of their staring contest that just started only five seconds ago.

“That would be me, I believe,” he says with a broken English, petrifying Villa with the unexpectedness of it. The man cheers up so suddenly and says something about leaving two old friends alone to catch up and leaves the room before any of them object.

Villa devours him with his eye, the curve of his lips, one drop of sweat running down from his throat, the way his thin fingers tense and flex, the delicate tattoo on his wrist... 

Silva shuffles uncomfortably, rubbing his collarbones, a reflex he knows by heart and God, the urge to kiss him right there is almost impossibly strong but he forces himself to stay where he is, even though it makes his skin burns to be so far away from him when he can just take few steps towards him and they’ll be touching. 

“What are you doing here?” Silva asks in Spanish, and Villa almost groans to hear that because it reminds him of the long nights in sheets, sometimes just talking and kissing, sometimes frantic sex, home, endless conversations over the phone when there was the ocean separating them and all the things that could’ve been.

“I’m sure you are aware that I’m the coach, right?” he says somewhat awkwardly, tongue tripping over the words like he is still speaking English, brows furrowing. 

Silva huffs in annoyance and he waves his hand dismissively. There is an ugly expression on his face, something he isn’t used to see on him, especially not directed at him, something akin to disgust when he says, “Don’t play dumb. Why did you take it? Do you think it’s funny?” His lips quiver at the end and he can hear the desperation in his cold words.

“Not at all,” he says, trying to keep it together by gripping the edge of the desk. “But I have to start from somewhere.”

Silva laughs disbelievingly and he bites into his cheek to stop himself from apologising. Maybe his voice wouldn’t even be heard because he doesn’t think any sound can escape the tightness around his throat.

“You hate England. God, you hate Manchester even more. I just,” he breathes heavily, fingers pulling on his hair. “I don’t understand why are you doing this to me.”

Villa stares at his tear filled eyes and stands there tongue tied while Silva looks at him with big hurt eyes, waiting for an acceptable answer.

“Okay,” he says in a calm voice when he gives up on receiving an answer and it takes Villa by surprise how quickly he can get his composure back. “I’ll go.”

“No,” Villa snaps immediately, don’t even bothering to pretend like he misunderstood Silva’s words. “You can’t go. I need you in the squad.” _I need you in my life._

Silva grimaces and sends a disgusted look. “How lovely. I’m sure you would be devastated to see the club suffer.”

“You like it here,” he says, hopelessly trying to find a way to change his mind at that moment, even though once, the thought of David loving Manchester was a stab through his heart. 

“I did,” he accepts, and Villa still has to remind himself that he is in Manchester too, that he doesn’t have to be jealous of a city. “But I loved Valencia and look where I am now,” he says, opening his arms wide.

“The team plays like shit when you are not playing. You know that.” He did watch City play, he scheduled his life around the matches for many years, just to see him. He hasn’t even glanced at the TV if Silva wasn’t in the squad, but he just knew they always lost or struggled without him.

Silva narrows his eyes at him, “I wouldn’t talk that way about the team you are about to coach,” he warns. “And you’ll be fine, you have De Bruyne, play him as a playmaker for few games and he’ll reach his potential, which is far higher than mine. Besides I’ll be too old for this team soon.”

David snorts at that because Messi, Ronaldo, Neymar and all those players can score hundreds of goals but they will never have the grace Silva carries. No one can make it look as magical and natural as Silva does. And he will never be old with his innocence and sincerity. Not in his eyes. 

“I want you on my team and come on, you can win more titles,” he basically begs. “Don’t you want win the league again?”

He shrugs, with a closed off expression on his face. “I’ve won it four times.” 

Villa doesn’t object to that because that’s how he felt too when he was in Barcelona. “There is only few days left until transfer window is closed,” he tries, this being his last excuse.

Another shrug. “I can go to Valencia. They offered me a contract.”

“Without me?” he wants to say because he can’t still imagine Valencia without the two of them - his first season there feeling like a training for what’s to come -and definitely not with just one of them.

“Do you want to?” he asks instead, not wanting to hear the answer because both possibilities are horrible.

Silva averts his gaze and doesn’t answer. Maybe this is what Villa wanted too because his heart unclenches in his chest, blood turning back to his fingertips so that he can unclench them. “Stay,” he whispers.

“Why? Give me one solid reason,” Silva challenges, his voice almost hysteric.

“I can’t do this without you,” he says, everything he wants to say is in these few words and Silva hears it but ignores nevertheless, folding his arms in front of him chest defiantly. 

“You don’t care about what will happen to City and you won’t pursue a higher career after this. The only reason you are is that Mourinho fucked up so spectacularly in the beginning of the season that they decided it couldn’t go worse.”

That’s exactly Villa’s thoughts and he is more than glad that Silva sees through him, everything. “Exactly,” he admits, enjoying the look of surprise on his beautiful face. “So I’d appreciate it dearly if you stayed.” 

“Me too,” an unfamiliar voice interrupts them. Silva doesn’t turn to see who it is, he doesn’t need to after playing together for seven years. Villa twines his fingers behind his back when Agüero puts his elbow on Silva’s shoulder casually, albeit a little awkwardly due to their almost same height.

Silva turns his head slightly to him and mumbles something incoherently, making Agüero raise his eyebrows. He winks at Villa, “Don’t worry, he’ll stay. He can’t survive without my cooking, can you David?”

Villa feels ugly jealousy creep into his body as he takes in the way their hips rest together when they are standing, the easy way this fucking weirdo talks into Silva’s ear and how Silva just leans into it instead of getting disturbed by it as he would be if it was any other person.

“Your cooking is shit,” Silva mutters, eyes fixated on the floor but Villa can see his walls crumpling and Agüero is maybe right after all, Silva would miss him too much to leave, despite him ruining their city and club.

“Right,” Agüero retorts sarcastically. “Maybe you should make the dinner today.”

Silva shrugs but there is a faint of a fond smile on his lips and it sends unwelcome shivers through his skull to see the man he loves in love with someone else, someone apparently treated him the way he deserves. He always preferred not to believe the rumours passed between retired footballers, Leo’s shy attempts to warn him about the nature of their relationship and his own eyes but now everything is in the open and there is not a way not to see this. He thought he was prepared for this, this ridiculous amount of fire in his veins and he imagines it’s something similar to what Patricia felt for years.

Agüero pries his eyes away from Silva with great effort and shoots Villa a wolfish grin, which Villa’s minds helpfully translates into I’ll-be-fucking-him-not-you. “We’ll be going then, coach,” he says softly but Villa doesn’t miss the devilish undertone. “I’m sure it has been a hell of a day for you. I can’t wait until tomorrow, hopefully we’ll make City an enjoyable experience for you.”

Did this imp seriously hint they might offer him a place in a threesome.

Villa stands there frozen, until his aching knees gives up on him and he finds himself on floor for a while before he comes to his mind and calls a cab to take him to his hotel.

He doesn’t wank, just sleeps like a broken hearted dead person.

***

He wakes up at five am in the next morning because he slept at seven pm the day before. He is hungry as a wolf but that image where Agüero had his hand on the small of Silva’s back is still intact, so he ignores his growling stomach and heads to the shower to clear his head. It’s useless, and skimming through the channels proves to be a horrible choice as it’s all about him.

He finally has to force himself to eat something. They all taste disgusting, even the ones he packed in case he couldn’t find something he likes at hotel. 

He is at the training grounds at 8 and walks inside the building for almost an hour to get used to the place, just like he did every time he transferred to another club.

Jesus, his assistant coach, finds him just before nine and looks so anxious to meet him that Villa forces a smile. He reasons it was a pointless try because he bloody well knows how he looks when he smiles insincerely.

They stand in silence as they wait footballers to fill the pitch. Villa purposely doesn’t look to Agüero or Silva but he watches the others to at least gain some information. He mentally slaps himself when he realises he doesn’t know the new signings other than their names, these learned from the games he watched when Silva played.

“Just play along,” Jesus says without turning to him. Villa frowns, wondering if he just caught the ending of his assistant’s words. “I’m sorry?”

“You’ll get to know them. I can do the job today, so you can watch them,” he offers unsurely. “If you wish.”

Villa takes a relieved breath, “I’d appreciate that.” He really feels better now that he finds out his companion through this journey isn’t a dick or an idiot.

He then calls over the squad to join them. Jesus quickly introduces him to the team and Villa almost rolls his eyes at Hart’s nasty expression as he wraps his arms around Silva’s shoulder. Silva looks distinctly horrified at his friend’s possessive behaviour but doesn’t get away from his heavy arms either.

He looks over everyone, spending half a second more on the obvious person, his heart giving a jolt just like it’s 2007 and 2010 and 2015. He clears his throat to address the team, their apparent anticipation to hear him unnerving him. He doesn’t know what to say, because he hasn’t thought about it and he is really proving to be the worst coach ever.

He thinks of Pep and what he would do in this situation and he doesn’t find it suitable for him –oh, how horrified Pep would be to hear his arrogant thoughts- so instead he goes for Simeone. “Well, we don’t have time to waste. Just start running, we’ll have time to learn about each other over the time” he says helplessly, flinging his arms, remembering Simeone never spent time before trainings.

They do as they are told and take off. Villa watches as Hart contemplates whether he should join the team for running, probably considering just going over to goalkeeper training. He joins the team pouting when he catches Villa staring at him without blinking, as if daring him to cut this off.

He notices a little too late that Silva hasn’t started jogging and he doesn’t know if he should be a responsible coach and send him for it or just let him say whatever he has to say. Villa waits for him to approach him with his fingers around his wrist behind his back.

“I won’t call you coach Villa,” he finally says after glaring at him for a few minutes.

Villa shrugs because he wouldn’t want that either and says so. Silva looks taken aback for a second before he adds, “I won’t get into a relationship with my coach either.” 

Villa decides not to say anything on that because he definitely wishes that he would get into a relationship with his coach but to voice them right there, is not a sensible move. 

Silva visibly grits his teeth and Villa hates himself a little bit more to think that he played a major part in turning him into this stern, distrusting man. Oh and how much it hurts him that he has the all the right in the universe to distrust him. “You may think that not confirming that you are here to get me in bed and fuck me raw few times before fucking off doesn’t mean that I’m not aware of it and I’ll let you,” he says casually, like he is talking about this evening’s grocery shopping. 

Villa keeps silent again, because this time he honestly doesn’t have anything to say because it’s not like he is innocent of breaking his heart many times, like he hasn’t done these. The accusation claws at his soul, cutting deep into his skin and he has to close his eyes and imagine that faint wind is warmer, the rain is dry and it’s actually the sun and Manchester is Valencia. He feels a hope appear in his chest and he holds onto it tight. It’s his only chance and the only solid thing he can find.

When he opens his eyes, Silva is not standing close. He’s joined his teammates and he has pulled his hood up to cover his hair, still not used to the rain. He has never been so far away and so, so lovely. 

***

He is unexpectedly good at his job that he is actually surprising himself too. He is older than the whole squad but not old enough for them to feel detached from him. He never really yells because he doesn’t have the energy to feel passionate about anything else when Silva exists and again, he isn’t much older than these people, he is not a sixty year old legend who won championships all over Europe and some of them had just as glorious careers as him and well, its not like they don’t know how to kick a ball and how to avoid tackles.

He acts like a true professional when he is on hours, even if his gaze always lingers on Silva when they are stretching, or he is always extra careful to correct him. He doesn’t have passion for the club or the team and he doesn’t give motivational speeches before the matches. He doesn’t make everyone want to win the game for him, to make him proud because he is just someone to arrange and give them instruction, not a mother hen or an idol.

But he does analyse the game perfectly and he is always on point. He can always sense who he should put in the game to win, not giving shit about the odd looks he receives when he makes a rather courageous choice and he puts next games into consideration too and no one complains about his squad choices after games because no one can offer anything better when he is always doing the right choice.

Everyone’s more than a little amused how he shapes the squad around Silva, except Silva.

Silva does his best to avoid him at all costs, not looking him in the eye even when he is speaking directly to him and pushing his limits just not to give Villa something to talk about and never leaving the training alone, usually tagging along very eager Agüero. 

He doesn’t find him until they slip one match and lose to Arsenal 1-3, an own goal from Silva in the last minutes to make them lose all the hope to earn a point. Silva storms into his room without knocking or calling out and if it was anyone else Villa would be sending them away with death glare but he just leans back into his chair and waits him to get his breath back.

“I don’t want you to play me when all I do is fuck up, okay?” he screams suddenly and Villa flinches, as he wasn’t expecting Silva to raise his voice. “I don’t want you to treat me any differently. I want to earn it if I get to play. I don’t want to fuck it up for the team. Do you realise there are people who are dying to win the league? You can’t just play me because there is a possibility I’ll fall on my knees during the match and provide you some wanking material.”

Villa stands up abruptly and snaps the door violently after checking to see if anyone was around to hear Silva’s outburst and feels his stomach drop when his eyes contact with Sterling, that little shit who never bothers to look up if there is anyone who can get the ball when he crosses and ruins half of their chances.

“What are you fucking talking about David?” he hisses, and takes a deep breath when Silva jumps. “What do you want me to do? Bench you? I’ll do that if it’s going to make you feel better. Is that what you want?” he steps closer, close enough to smell his shampoo and it kills him that Silva took a shower probably to calm himself before coming here.

Silva stares at him with his mouth open and he can see right through him, how he wants to say yes just to ease his conscience, his doubt that he is getting playing time because he thinks Villa is trying to get him back. But he still loves to play, he loves City and the fans and his teammates even though everyone else thinks City has no soul and they are just bunch of talented footballers bought by big money, trying to blend in.

“Answer me,” Villa urges, stepping closer until their body warmth joins each other’s. Silva keeps looking at his shoulder because if he raises his head, they will be kissing and there won’t be anything to stop the consequences.

It gets too much at some point, the fresh minty smell of his perfume, or maybe its his aftershave cologne and it kills him not to know which, his own unique aroma under the layers of clothes and foreign smells. He wraps his fingers around Silva’s waist, they are as delicate as he remembers - and he must have gained some weight in the last years because he doesn’t feel his feel his ribs under his palm- and he pulls him closer to bury his nose into the crook of his neck, and Silva thrashes in his arms for some time before he tilts his head behind to allow him some space even though space is the last thing he needs. Villa almost cries at his consent because it’s been too long and he didn’t honestly think there would ever be another.

He presses his lips to his pulse point, to feel the life, its’ furious pace. “Stop,” Silva whispers shakily, hands trailing up to grasp his shoulders in a too tight grip and Villa feels a tear wet the tip of his ear.

And he would, if it wasn’t for the arms wrapped securely around his neck.

***

They don’t start fucking after that, they don’t even see each other outside the pitch and team meetings but it’s not something you can forget, the vulnerability they both showed to each other.

But they walk around with hearts in their eyes, positively pining, especially Villa and they start to call each other by their names. Before the incident in Villa’s office, everyone heard Villa call him by his first name occasionally but never Silva. He doesn’t even seem to be aware of it, because that’s what’s normal for them. Sometimes it’s quite challenging not to laugh when Silva mutters something like “El Guaje wouldn’t approve of this, am I wrong David?” in Spanish, because almost everyone knows or suspects about their former relationship and Silva might not realise this but everything leaving his mouth shows how bitter he is towards Villa. 

Silva starts to talk to him about the tactics and Villa listens to him, it’s not like Villa ignores the others but you can clearly see that he always gives all of his attention to Silva. They sometimes see Silva laugh at something Villa said and it’s hard to decide to be worried or happy for him.

**

One night in March, a Friday, Silva comes to his door. It’s a total surprise for him, hell, he was just going to start wallowing in self pity by replacing his whole blood with alcohol for the third time that week.

They stand there staring at each other, then Villa clears his throat and invites him in with a small voice. He ushers inside, trying to hide whiskey bottle, in vain. Silva’s eyes linger on the empty ones Villa forgot about, then he looks at him. “Celebrating something?”

It feels like they suddenly moved backwards, his attentive approach to him gone to waste because his voice sounded so distant, like he was listening to him on an old record.

He splutters something, and tries to kick the bottles under the sofa with a harsh kick but it goes sideways and rolls towards Silva. He chuckles, staring at the bottle somehow lovingly, “Haven’t practiced much, it appears.”

Villa huffs at that but can’t stop the smile illuminating his face. “I’ll see you when you are at my age.”

That wipes the faint smile off Silva’s face and yes, he admits that maybe that wasn’t the best thing to say for more than one reason but he can’t find anything else to say to ease the tension now.

“I..” he starts, nudging the bottle with his toe. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

This catches Villa off the guard but hope blooms in his chest instantly. He clears his throat and chooses a natural reproach. “Well, you are welcome anytime. Don’t just stand there, take a seat.” The words are familiar, but he doesn’t remember ever talking to Silva this way, not even past this few months, or that few awkward weeks after they met in Valencia.

Silva drops himself back to sofa. “I think I can use a drink.”

Villa hesitates because they have a match tomorrow and he wouldn’t let anyone else even mention it, just scratch their name off the starting line up or the whole squad for the game. 

Silva sees his hesitation and snorts, “Do you remember how much we drank the night before we Madrid?”

That wipes out all of his hesitation and he bends down to take the bottle next to his bookshelf and grabs two glasses from his vitrine. “I didn’t see you hide that one. Maybe you haven’t lost all your speed after all.” 

“I was never a fast player in the first place,” he says objectively, as he generously fills the glasses. 

Silva shrugs, “Fast enough for me.”

Villa immediately bans himself from picking up words and translating them into some erotic novel garbage.

He hands the glass and sits next to him, close enough to feel his existence, to hear his slightly fastened breaths but not enough to feel his warmth so he can stop shivering. 

Silva takes a generous gulp and Villa doesn’t have to glance at him to know that he is grimacing because he was never good with alcohol anyways, but he particularly disliked whiskey because he always claimed it made him emotional.

“Relax, David,” he says after he takes the second gulp and his voice is as smooth as it was in South Africa, when they were tangled beneath the sheets after the greatest cup was held high by every single player on the team.

Villa snorts, drowning his drink in one go and Silva raises a brow at him, a smile tugging at his lips when he sees the way Villa shudders at the taste. 

He opens and closes his mouth indecisively, sneaking little glances at his former lover. Villa is sitting rigidly half a meter away from him, eyes on the wall, waiting for Silva to break the silence.

When he finally does, his brain stops for a second even though the question is what he expected. “Why are you really here David? To ease your conscience or to get me back?” His voice is small and his thin fingers are wrapped around his glass securely, before he puts it down, and there is almost a pained look in his eyes. Villa wants to touch him, rub every piece of sadness, anger out of him but he knows what happened between them can’t be solved by touches, but only heartfelt apologies and that’s if David ever forgives him.

“Both,” he says finally, keeping to his promise that he will not lie to him anymore. “I don’t want to be without you. God,” he breathes deeply, shakily as a fire erupts in his chest and he almost throws himself at Silva. “I swear, I don’t want to ever spend a day without seeing you and I just want you to give me a second chance.”

Silva turns his head slightly, almost unnoticeably but during his plain but honest speech, he shuffled closer, so it feels like Silva ran miles for him. “Second?”

A chuckle escapes his lips before he can stop it but Silva doesn’t seem to mind because he is suddenly closer, close enough to see the tiny freckles scattered around his eyes, close enough to feel his breath over his own mouth.

Villa stands there not moving a single muscle, giving all control to the younger man and God, he was wrong, he was so wrong when he thought Silva became a stern, distrusting man because then it would be a dream, not his reality when Silva slides his hand over David’s sweats and kisses him on the corner of his mouth tentatively.

A soft sigh escapes him and he can feel Silva smile against his check when he closes his eyes, devouring every second of their intimacy.

Silva nudges his nose with his own and that just makes them smile against each other like some freaking idiots. Silva touches his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue and he eagerly gives in, opening his mouth for him to invade.

It isn’t hesitant of soft, because as soon as their tongues meet in Villa’s mouth they claw at each other, Villa’s hand tugging at Silva’s soft hair hard and reveals unmarked skin of his neck. Before he can think better he starts sucking and biting into those delicate collarbones, as Silva digs his fingers into his shoulder and ribs hard.

“Let’s go to the bedroom,” Silva moans halfway through the sentence and Villa hums in approval but doesn’t do anything about it. He tugs his shirt until he can see scarce chest hair and starts peppering kisses on every inch of his skin.

“Come on,” he urges, as Villa’s hand wander near his abdomen and this time Villa forces himself to stop and lead them to bedroom. They knock out few things on their way, some of them making high crashing sounds but neither of them gives a second thought to them, because their hands are full of each other and who cares about few vases anyway?

Villa switches the lights on with one hand, blindly, as Silva once again captures his lips in a bruising kiss. They are moving along with year’s experience, in perfect sync even in hurry. His taste explodes in his mouth, all too familiar and God, he can’t believe he survived without this for years. He bites into his plump lips hard, getting a both pained and lustful groan from the younger man. Silva is as eager as he was twenty, maybe even more so and Villa gives as much as he gets, gripping his hips to bring their aching bodies closer.

They are snogging against the door, Villa’s ass banging against it as they hump against each other. Villa takes the matter in hand and guides him to sit on the edge of the bed, as he kneels between his legs. Silva curls his fingers in Villa’s hair and tugs on harshly until his head bends to give him enough space to attack his neck. Silva carefully bites into his jugular, Villa’s panting and hands all over his skin encouraging him to go further.

Villa tugs his sweatpants and Silva raises his hips to help him get it off along with his boxers. He hisses as cool air hits his sensitive skin and Villa doesn’t waste any time before he starts kissing all over his body, stomach, inside of his thighs, navel, all in the same moments as he jerks him off to total hardness.

 

“Don’t tease for God’s sake, David,” Silva trashes as Villa moves his thumb over the tip of his cock, mouthing around his belly button at the same time.

 

He hums, thinking how pretty he is when he begs for more and he starts kissing along his shaft, making Silva’s stomach muscles tighten on instinct. He finally gets to the tip and flicks his tongue experimentally, which is stupid because he has done this thousand times. He takes pity on him when he lets out a miserable cry and takes his cock in his mouth without further teasing and Silva’s hips jerk at the suddenness of it, but he immediately realises what he’s done and tries to hold himself back.

Villa bobs his down few times, reminding himself to relax his throat, sucking hard all the time and groans in pleasure when Silva’s hips give another helpless thrusts into his throat.  

He draws back, and licks along the vein underside, fondling his balls with great care as Silva thrashes under his care. “Fuck my mouth,” he mutters into his navel, looking him in the eyes as he speaks, “Don’t hold back.”

Silva seems unsure, and his chest aches with the proof that Silva is still thinks of him first, is ready to give up on his pleasure to not hurt him in any way.

“Come on,” he urges as he wraps his lips around his wet cock again, rubbing his calves. Silva finally decides he means it, he wants it, and pushes his head down with the hand on his neck. He gags around as it hits the back of his throat and he takes deep breaths through his nose as Silva just lies there, enjoying the convulsing of his throat, with eyes closed and flush starting to take over his body, cheeks first, then neck and he wants to see the rest.

Silva then takes him off his cock to kiss him deeply, not giving a shit about the saliva or precum before he guides his head back to his dick again, this time shallowly thrusting, setting a pace, which gets harder step by step. Villa drinks in his moans and meaningless words and wonders if he can just come from this because he can feel it forming in the pit of his stomach, the warning that he will see starts soon and sucks harder on his dick, making Silva thrust up deeper and faster and his eyes burn and tear up but he loves it, every second of it. Silva must have realised this too because he doesn’t stop, just continues what he’s doing, occasionally caressing his cheek lovingly.

Villa grabs his cock over his sweatpants when it becomes too much and moans at the pleasure, also making the younger one moan too. He tries to move his hand along with the cock in his mouth and when Silva mutters “I’m close, I’m so close,” he starts sucking with eagerness that surprises him too and he swallows around his cock few times and it’s what brings Silva over the edge and he spills his cum down his throat and he swallows it the best he can, dazed of the lack of air and the rich taste of his cum.

He licks Silva clean and he whimpers when he sucks on his over sensitive cock, opening his eyes with some effort and tugs him close by his hands, making him abandon jerking himself.

“You think you can come without me touching your cock?” he asks with mischief in his bright eyes as he makes Villa straddle him. Villa throws his back to groan at the thought, giving a quiet laugh. “I’m sure we can try,” he counters back. 

“Do you have lube and condoms?” Silva asks between the kisses he places on his jawline. Villa’s head swim because his cock is still throbbing and he is nibbling on his earlobe. “David?” Silva questions again and Villa just waves his hand vaguely towards his bathroom. Silva laughs and gets up to retrieve them. Villa soon hears the door cracking open and he starts counting the starts behind his eyelids so he won’t think about Silva bending over without anything to cover his lower body in his room.

“Found them,” he says triumphantly in less than a minute but it feels like years to Villa, as he just lies there trying to ignore his aching cock.

Silva gets rid of his his shirt and raises his eyebrows at the lying man. “Are you going to stay clothed?” 

Villa then opens his eyes and grins crookedly, “Why don’t you get me undress?”

Silva chuckles and straddles him suddenly, his naked ass on his crotch and he tugs Villa’s jumper, who is still not used to the cold, and gets rid of it in one smooth move. He caresses his chest with his smooth palm, touching his hard nipples with the tip of his fingers. The almost pained look on his face and the unmistakable hardness poking his ass urge him on but he also want to draw this long, so he can enjoy knowing he can affect a person like this for a little longer.

Villa groans loudly and buries his face into the pillow to hide his face and that’s when Silva decides it’s enough and he uncaps the bottle to sink his fingers into, getting a huge amount just in case because he kind of wishes that it’s been long for Villa too.

Villa doesn’t seem to be aware that he is spreading his legs, too caught up in his sweet agony and only responds to his touches when his finger probes at his entrance. He draws in a breath and his eyes are wide open, and his lips looks so white where he bits into, so Silva leans in to kiss him deeply, his tongue seeking the warmth of the other. That lets Villa to focus more on him than his aching cock, and he just focuses on the earthly smell of this beautiful man.

He just moans into his mouth when one finger becomes two and starts to thrust into his slim fingers, and fuck, that’s not enough, not at all and he need more and he says it aloud. Silva seems to lost himself in the sensations too because he quickly adds the third finger, not thinking that it might be too soon, that he needs to stretch the older man more.

“I’m ready,” Villa pants, “Or do you want me to come just from your fingers?”

Silva groans at the mental image, burying his face into the crook of his neck and bites hard into the clean skin, drawing a scream from Villa and it makes him realise the state of the man under him and he quickly grabs the base of his cock to stop him from coming. 

“From my cock, David, remember?” he mumbles as he kisses along his well defined jaw.

“Come on,” David urges, pushing and pulling at the same time. Silva straightens and reaches out to condom. Villa doesn’t even look, just waits for Silva do what he needs to and fuck him. When Silva finally grabs him behind his knees and throws his legs over his shoulder a relieved sigh escapes his mouth because there it is, the moment he imagined for years and it’s so good he can’t even see straight, he can only feel the tip of Silva’s cock push at his entrance and he moans loudly, to tell Silva it is alright to go and just fuck him.

“Fuck me,” he says between gasps as Silva enters him slowly, or he thinks he says because Silva doesn’t do anything to show him that he heard so he has to opens his eyes to see him, to show him that it’s okay to go hard, he want it, hard and relentless because that’s what he was looking for but he can’t even think when he finally gets his vision back because Silva has eyes closed and his head is turned upwards, teeth worrying his red lips and he is trying so hard to stay sane and it ‘s exactly him and it just makes him want to weep because they are meant to be, in every aspect of the word, and how the fuck he lived for years without touching this lovely creature before him?

He takes the matter in hand after that and starts to thrust up to him but he can only move a little. It doesn’t matter after that though, because it brings Silva to his mind and he starts to thrust, not so fast that they cant look into each other’s but not slow enough to make this in to torture for either of them.

It is by not means their most porn worthy performance, but it’s definitely one of the most private, and somehow one of the most innocent because they just cling into each other, limbs tangling awkwardly as they mumble nonsense into each other’s skin when they come just after few minutes of fumbling.

Silva stays on top of Villa until his breathing turns to normal and then slips out of him with a wet pop. They both sour their faces at the sound because the condom slipped out of Silva along the way. Villa just reaches between his legs and takes it out without saying anything.

They both stare at the ceiling for a long time, exactly in the same position, hands entangled over their own bellies. When Villa speaks up, it only makes Silva hit him lightly on the chest. “Well, we always knew I had the bigger dick.” 

“Shut up, I’ve almost always bottomed anyways.”

“We barely even lasted three minutes,” Villa says after some time, turning his face to stare at the profile of the other man. Silva snorts, “I say two minutes.”

Villa hums in agreement and his eyes start to close when he remembers something. His mouth curls up when he sneaks his arm around Silva’s thin waist. “And you did fuck your coach in the end.”

Silva tries to elbow him after that but he is too sleepy to complete his action and only manages to settle more closely into Villa’s arms.

Everyone knew he didn’t stand a chance anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave feedback, I really put a lot of effort in this and I'm always grateful to see some kudos or comments :)


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